


Baited

by mimsical



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Seduction, Trans Dirk Strider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimsical/pseuds/mimsical
Summary: Dirk thinks he's too worldweary for seduction tactics to work on him.Jake intends to prove him wrong.





	Baited

**Author's Note:**

> i cant decide if im writing more of this or not so im throwing it up here before it sinks to the bottom of my writing folder forever, lol. if i ever continue the rating would go up to explicit.

The boy who lives with old Granny English out on her farm has recently taken over the duties of running her stall, selling eggs and vegetables with the ease of joints not yet turned arthritic. He calls her Grandma, an affectionate lilt to his voice, the few times you’ve overheard someone asking after her, though you’re unsure if they’re truly related or not. 

Of course you’d noticed, when the friendly old woman at your favorite roadside stall had been replaced with some guileful devil who had cheerfully flirted with your cousin Roxy in a way you felt Granny English would surely disapprove of, all charm and no promise. And, yeah, it was hard not to _notice_  him, too, though you hadn’t exchanged a word with him beyond your weekly stop to buy eggs from him. 

He’s a few years older than you, and his name is Jake. You hadn’t asked for his name; Roxy had shared it, and you hadn’t been able to keep it from sticking in your head. Not that it matters, beyond wondering if Roxy might have told him your name, too. 

Today you don’t have so many chores on your plate, most of them run in the early morning, leaving you now to wander back home slowly, enjoy the final cooler hours as the sun began heating up the dusty air to something you would feel obliged to retreat from. Your path home takes you past his stall, and he calls out to you as you pass. 

“Headed somewhere important, buttercup?”

You come to a halt, more surprised than anything. “I’m not buying anything just because you think you can say something flattering,” you tell him, trying to make your tone severe and forbidding. “Do I look like that much of an easy mark?” 

He laughs. Amusement is an unfortunately good look on him, white teeth and dimples and crinkled eyes. “No, you look like a someone it would be a real trick to take for a ride. I’ll have to do better, won’t I now?” He leans forward against his table of wares, still grinning. “No, hm, let’s see. Come here a sec, I want to give it another shot.” 

Despite your better sense, you approach a few steps, just enough for the shadow cast by his stall to engulf you. You regret it immediately. Being under his shade with him feels like you’ve stepped out of the safety of neutral ground and into something conspiring and intimate. 

He makes a show of tapping his chin and looking you over, thoughtfulness belied by the glint of humor in his eye. “I see, I see,” he says. “You’re a serious one, aren’t you? A hard worker, that’s for sure. Bit lonely?” 

Before you can bristle, he turns away, digs through some of the boxes he has stacked to his left. “I’ve just the thing for a little spark like you,” he says with a sort of casual self-confidence. “Let’s see, let’s see. Where’d I put… aha!” 

He thrusts his entire arm under the lid of one box and digs around vigorously. His shirt draws tight across his back, shoulders broad. Farm work, probably. It would give anyone some definition. 

You jerk your eyes away hastily when he makes a triumphant noise and retracts his arm, study the vegetables intently until he leans forward, reaches out to grab your wrist, casually bold. 

He turns your palm up as you go stiff with shock. You’re too surprised to resist as he peels your fingers back, places something in your hand, and then curls your fingers back around it. Metal, cool but swiftly warming to your skin. He pats your hand and releases you, leans back with a satisfied smile. 

“There,” he says. “Something to try to match those bits of sunshine you’ve got trapped there, though I’ve no doubt I’ll fall terribly short.” 

You look down at your hand, but don’t open it yet. You don’t want him to see your reaction to — whatever it is. “Still not buying anything.” 

“Oh, no, of course not, doll. That’s a gift, and I couldn’t charge you after you’ve been sweet enough to listen to me babble on.” Your toes curl against your sandals involuntarily when he leans in closer again, drops his voice conspiratorially. “In fact, so long as you don’t run off to spill the beans to Grandma, here.” 

He plucks a plum from the display and holds it out to you. His fingers brush against yours when you automatically reach out to take it, and both of your hands flare hot at the touch. 

“A bit of sweetness for you,” he says, and — winks. He sure knows how to lay it on thick. “No charge.” 

You find your voice and your feet again. “I, uh. Thanks. That’s… nice of you. I have to go.” 

He nods. “Of course, of course, I’ve kept you a bit too long, haven’t I? I’ll see you around, then. Eggs tomorrow?” 

“The day after,” you correct, and take a step back. “But, yes. I’ll come to pick them up.” 

“I’ll wait with baited breath,” he promises with another damn wink. “Have a good day, Dirk.” 

You feel your face flush hot. He does know your name. Of course he does. “Bye,” you say shortly, and spin on your heel to flee. 

When you’re a long distance out of sight, you finally stop to look at what he clasped into your hand. It’s a brooch, meant to pin to your shirt, made up of a simple metal setting and a bead of amber. 

So that’s what he meant. Amber, orange, trapped sunshine. A really roundabout way to compliment your eyes, apparently. He’s lucky you got what he meant instead of just being confused and missing the really weird flattery. 

It’s pretty. You don’t really wear much jewelry. Not exactly your thing, but.  

You drop the brooch into your pocket and stiffly head home. There’s a quietly simmering ache between your legs that you staunchly ignore. It would be beyond inadvisable to grant it any consideration. Even the consideration of your hand would be reckless. 

You do eat the plum, though. You’re not one to waste food, and the flavor of it lingers sweet on your tongue for the rest of the morning. 


End file.
